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by llrstyb



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llrstyb/pseuds/llrstyb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor comes home to Oliver to seek solace. Set right after the 2nd mid-season finale, "What Did We Do?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The buzzing in his ears is what keeps him going until he can get home; home to Oliver. His hands are shaking, and his ears have blocked out all the noise from the outside. He can only hear the frantic thrumming of his heart and feel the adrenaline pumping under his skin.

 

Everything is a blur. 

 

He’s walking through the street, bumping into something, someone. 

 

He’s in front of the door that leads to their apartment, with Oliver just behind it, safe, curled up in the sheets, lost in his dreams.

 

He’s opening the door.

 

He’s taking off all his clothes, the clothes that he wore at that house, his breath is shaky, and the clothes aren’t coming off fast enough; they get stuck on his foot, and he curses under his breath, careful not to wake Oliver.

 

Finally, he’s in bed. He’s hugging Oliver with a death grip. He’s probably hurting him; he’ll probably leave bruises, ugly dark bruises that will be visible in the morning, and as much as he wants to, he can’t let go. Instead Connor clings even tighter to Oliver’s sleeping form, curls up around him and nuzzles his face against the back of Oliver’s neck. 

 

Connor breathes in deeply for the first time. He breathes in the scent of Oliver, the scent of love and comfort and home. The warm skin under his fingertips, the warmth of Oliver’s back pressed up against Connors' chest causes his heart to slow and his breathing to even out.

 

Slowly a hand, Oliver’s, moves under the covers, tracing down Connors' elbow until it finds his hand and lightly places his on top of Connors.

 

“Is everything alright?” he whispers, in a quiet, lazy voice, still laced with sleep. 

 

In response, Connor tightens his hold around Oliver, his arm wrapping even tighter around his stomach and pulling Oliver even closer to himself.

 

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Connor says, placing feather-light kissed on Oliver’s neck. “I had a bad day at work.” Is all he says because he can’t think of anything else. He can’t make up an excuse as for why, from Oliver’s point of view, he probably looks freaked out.

 

It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie. His stomach is twisting with guilt that he’s not telling the truth. Oliver deserves everything in this wretched world, but at the very least he deserved a lover who is honest with him. And Connor is not.

 

The words, the confessions of all the horrible things he has ever done, is bubbling up in his mouth, choking him, burning his throat, trying to force their way out of his mouth, but he won’t let them. Connor won’t let them out, can’t utter those words.

 

Oliver groggily turns over, rustling the covers, and causing cool air to break through into the little bubble of heat they’ve created.

 

Slowly, he traces his hand through Connor’s hair, his cheekbones, and down to his lips. “What’s wrong,” he asks, nothing but love and worry in his eyes, his sleepy, soft expression slowly turning into one of concern. Connor can’t look at him, can’t look at the adoration and love that he sees there; it makes him sick. Those hands that bring Connor so much pleasure and trace his body with such care, they shouldn’t be allowed to be near him. Oliver shouldn’t be near someone like him. 

 

“Connor. What’s wrong. Please tell me what happened. Your entire body is trembling, and you’re eyes have panic in them.” Oliver says, tracing his hands down Connors neck, his chest, his arms, trying to calm him down, like one would to a wild animal. 

 

“Ollie” Connor whimpers the name and shudders. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. He just wants to lose himself in Oliver, in his touch in his voice, his eyes, his scent, his breath. Wants to forget that this horrible night ever happened. 

 

“It’s all right, love, I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“Tomorrow.” A lie. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” So many lies. All Connor knows how to do is lie.

 

Oliver looks skeptic but doesn’t try to push it. Instead he wraps his arms around Connor, entwines their legs together, and, pressing gentle kisses to his collarbone, holds him all night. 

 

As long as he has Oliver, Connor thinks, he’ll be okay. As long as he can feel Oliver’s arms wrap around him at night, as long as he can have the looks Oliver gives him, full of love, he’ll be okay. No matter what Annalise throws at him, no matter how tainted he becomes with blood, as long as he has Oliver, he’ll be okay. That thought is the only thing that gets him through that night. _As long as I have Oliver I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Connor splashes cold water on his face, wakening up his senses, the heavy sleep dissipating from his mind. Looking up into the bathroom mirror, the water droplets running down his face, he can’t stop the flashbacks running, tearing, through his thoughts. 

 

He held the gun in his hands. And he wanted to use it. 

 

Hands around the bathroom’s countertop, supporting his weight, Connor lets his head fall between his shoulder, eyes screwed shut, trying to use the back of his eyelids as an eraser of the memories in his head. 

 

His knuckles are white from how hard he is squeezing the countertop.

 

Hearing the bathroom door open, Connor raises his head. When he opens his eyes and looks in the mirror, he sees Oliver standing behind him, leaning against the frame of the door. Hugging himself against the cold, Oliver rubs his hands against the top of his arms and takes hesitant steps into the bathroom to stand right beside Connor.

 

They stand side by side, staring at each other’s reflection in the mirror.  

 

In his boxers and cotton t-shirt, Oliver looks so adorable that it twists something in Connor’s chest. He looks so innocent, so far removed from the violence and the madness that Connor had experienced just hours earlier. And then he sees the look in Oliver’s eyes, and the twisting in his chest turns into a full blown punch. Oliver looks wary of Connor. 

 

“Have you been doing drugs again?” Oliver asks, quietly, trying to hide the disappointment that he feels from his voice. 

 

For a second, Connor blanks, not understanding what he was talking about, but then it hits him as he remembers. The lie. The lie that he made to cover for his erratic behavior that night. A night similar to this one. A night where Connor felt completely powerless and scared and wanting to be held by Oliver while at the same time run a thousand miles away from him to keep him away from his fucked up world. 

 

He can’t even look at Oliver, the guilt eating him up inside. 

 

“Ollie, I’m not a good person,” he eventually says, voice breaking while still looking in the mirror, still staring at Oliver through the reflection. Too much a coward to look him straight in the eyes.

 

“I…” Oliver trails off, not knowing what to say, how to comfort him. He moves closer towards Connor and places his hand gently on his naked back. The heat radiating from his skin, warming his cold hands. He runs his fingertips over his shoulder blade down to his waist and lays his head in the crook of Connor’s neck. “Help me understand, Connor. I need to know what happened to understand. To help you.”

 

“I didn’t do drugs, Ollie,” Connor says, finally turning towards Oliver, placing his head on Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver brings his hands into the nape of Connor’s hair and cradles his head. “It’s nothing really. I was just overreacting. There was a situation at work, and I almost lost my temper, almost hit someone.” _I grabbed a gun and almost shot Annalise, Ollie. I’m scared Ollie,_ is what he wants to say. “Anyways, everything’s settled now.” He tries to sound okay, tries to hide the panic from his voice.

 

“You almost punched someone? Who? What happened?” Oliver asked, drawing back from the hug, worried and staring at Connor who still had his head on Oliver’s shoulder. Connor closed his eyes before replying, _Shoot me_ ; Annalise had said to him. “It’s no big deal. I just got into an argument with one of the clients.” He’s sick with himself at how easy the lies come to him now. 

 

“What was the altercation about?”

 

 _‘Computer hacking, falsifying records, and that face; the friends he’d make behind bars.’_  

 

Annalise’s words burn, intrude themselves into his memory. The thought of Oliver in jail, because of him makes him want to tear the world apart, hurt anyone who dares even mention those two in the same sentence. And mostly, he wants to tear himself apart, burn himself to ashes for letting it come to this. 

 

Oliver was _used_ to blackmail Connor, was threatened and it made Connor sick to his stomach. 

 

“It was nothing.” How easy the damned can lie, Connor thinks. “Let’s go to bed,” he says.

 

Conner starts to move but then Oliver places a firm hand in the middle of his chest, sending sparks into Connor where the palm of Oliver’s hand makes contact with his chest, so close to his tired, broken, weary heart. Stepping in front of him, running his hand up to his face, Oliver cups Connors' cheeks and stares straight into his eyes as he says, “You are not a bad person, Connor.” Softly, tenderly, he presses his lips again Connor’s, a kiss, but a more intimate one than he knew could possibly exist before he’d met Oliver. 

 

“In fact, you’re one of the best I’ve ever met,” Oliver says, kissing him softly once again. “I love you.” He trails his hand down to Connor’s jaw, over his stubble, and down to his neck. 

 

Connor can feel the burning of oncoming tears and abruptly pulls away, moving towards the bedroom at a quick pace, not wanting Oliver to see how broken he feels at this moment. 

 

With his back to Oliver, he quickly makes the excuse of being tired and climbs under the covers, leaving Oliver standing alone in the bathroom, and lets the shame and guilt and panic wash over him.

 

Oliver, having turned off the bathroom light, and throwing the house into suffocating darkness, climbs into bed beside Connor. 

 

Silence. Only the loan squeak of tires could be heard through the window leading down to the road, someone out there also not sleeping in what should be the dead of the night. 

 

The creak of the bed as Oliver scoots closer to Connor. He’s looking at him, but Connor keeps his back firmly to him, clutching the pillow as if it’s his last lifeline. He doesn’t want Oliver to see this. To see him so broken and scared.

 

“Is this about that thing that you can’t tell me about,” Oliver asks, calmly. There’s no judgment in his voice; only the soft words meant to soothe Connor. And of course, they do, they soothe; it’s part of the magic that Oliver has over Connor. Hearing his voice calms the violent storming thoughts in Connor’s head. “The thing that you can go to jail for.” When Connor doesn’t reply, keeping himself stone-still, afraid to even breathe, Oliver continues. “It’s okay if you don’t tell me. I know you can’t. But please, Connor just look at me. Touch me. Kiss me. Give me something so I know you’re okay.”

 

And Connor does. He turns around, how can he not when Oliver is pleading, begging with him in that soft, melodious voice?

 

He touches him. 

He kisses him. 

 

He runs his hand through his hair, over his closed eyes, and then Connor’s biting the spot connecting his neck to his shoulder. His hands turn rough, his kisses hard. He’s slamming his hips into Oliver’s, and he’s breathing harshly, biting, licking, sucking any part of Oliver that he can reach.

 

Oliver is letting him, guiding him, running his hand through Connor’s hair, pulling him closer and whispering in his ear, “It’s okay. You’re okay Connor. I’m here I’m yours. You’re mine. That’s all that matters. 

 

There may be tears running down Connor’s cheeks; he doesn’t care. 

 

The only thing that matters is that Oliver is here, safe, underneath him, writhing and gasping and whispering his love in Connor’s ears. 

 

_Computer hacking, falsifying records, and that face; the friends he’d make behind bars._

 

_I’m the woman who ruined your life, and I’ll ruin Oliver’s too._

 

_Oliver’s too_

 

 _STOP,_ Connor’s screaming in his head, _leave me alone. Stop!_

 

He grasps Oliver even tighter, trying to push away the thoughts in his head. 

 

“If anything happens to you, Ollie, I don’t know what I’ll do. I- I can’t.” He’s grasping Oliver’s shoulders tightly under his fingers, “You can’t ever let something happen to you.” He’s frantic; he doesn’t care. When he let’s go of his shoulders, Oliver’s skin is white in the shape of Connor’s fingertips. 

 

“I’m here, Connor,” he gasps out between kisses. “I’m here. I’m right beside you.” He trails his hand over Connor’s stomach, his bellybutton and then lower. “I love you,” he says, whispering the last part into Connor’s mouth, staring into his brimming eyes full of emotion.  

 

They’re not always this rough. Usually they take their time, explore each other in the most pleasant of ways. This time it’s rough and harsh, and Connor is a madman teetering on the edge of sanity, holding on only by the gasps Oliver is making. 

 

***

 

“Do you remember, you once called me your drugs, that I was to you like drugs were to me. Bad. Harmful.” Connor says, softly, curled up around Oliver, and Oliver around him, entwined together like the threads of fabric. And just like fabric can only be fabric when it’s entwined with threads, so can Connor only be Connor when he’s entwined with Oliver. 

 

“I’m sorry I ever said that. I was wrong. Connor, you are one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

 

Connor lets out a bitter laugh. It’s strangled and barely makes it out of his throat.

 

He wants to scream at Oliver to leave. To leave him while he still can, while he’s still safe.

 

_I gave you HIV, Oliver, do you remember that?_

 

_I made you do illegal hacking that could cause you to go to jail._

 

_I let you get involved with Annalise._

 

_I wasn’t there when you were terrified out of your mind that you were about to be kidnapped by a murderer._

 

_No, you were wrong, Oliver. I’m not your drug. I’m your poison._

 

_You’re sleeping with a monster in your bed._

 

Connor wants to say all of this, but he can’t. He can’t because he’s a selfish bastard who would rather have Oliver with him, putting him in danger, than to be without him and causing himself pain. 

 

Instead, he just hugs Oliver closer to him and kisses his forehead. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s seven in the morning, a forsaken time to be up by anyone’s standards, and Connor is trying to shove Oliver, who keeps insisting that he should stay home, out the door. “I’m not a little child who needs to be babysat,” Connor says, trying, and failing to sound aggravated; he can hear the tender fondness in his own voice.

 

“But-” Oliver tries to protest, looking between Connor and the front door, unsure of what to do. 

 

“No buts. At least not those kinds of buts,” Connor says, and winks, trying his damned hardest to be as cheery and normal as possible. Trying to ignore the sense of anxiety he can feel under each word he says, each movement he makes. He hasn’t heard from Annalise or any of the others.

 

Taking Oliver by the shoulders, he leads him to the front door. “If I need anything, or if I’m freaking out again, I’ll call you.” Oliver still looks unsure, but Connor is already ushering him to the door. 

 

He steps closer to Oliver, and gently placing his hand on his cheek, runs his thumb over his smooth, freshly shaved jaw. “I love you.” Connor moves in closer, a mere half a strand of hair separating their lips. “I love you, and I’m okay. What happened yesterday, it- it…” Connor tries to say that it wasn’t a big deal, that it wasn’t anything important, but he doesn’t know how to make the lie sound convincing — to Oliver, to himself. Instead, he just looks down at Oliver’s lips, not wanting to look him in the eyes, and trails off, lamely. 

 

He moves back from Oliver, the distance of a strand of hair turning into one that is miles long. 

 

Oliver moves forward, toward Connor. Cupping Connor’s hand in between both of his own, Oliver looks at Connor with his wonderful, warm eyes, and says, smiling, “It’s okay. I get it,” he pauses, contemplating for a second. “I mean, technically I don’t get it since I don’t know what it is that happened exactly. But like, I get it. On some level, I’d like to think I get it. Whatever it is that you’re going through.”  

 

“You’re doing that thing.” Connor says, smiling, momentarily forgetting the sense of unease brewing in his body. 

 

Oliver looks at him, confusion in his eyes.

 

“You’re rambling because you’re nervous about leaving me alone and don’t know what to say, and you’re also acting supremely adorable and being really understandable and-” Connor hugs him, wrapped his arms around him, “you’re just the best boyfriend,” _that I don’t deserve_ , he adds in his head. 

 

Connor can’t help himself, after being scared half to death that Oliver had been kidnapped, and after what Annalise had threatened, he’d become so clingy and desperate to hold onto the domestic bliss he has with Oliver.

 

Oliver finally relents and, after giving Connor a peck on mouth, leaves for work. 

 

It’s not long after that that his phone pings and he gets’s a text. Connor’s heart sinks before he even reads the message — the number is hidden, anonymous. He types in the digits to his open his phone and reads the message, hands shaking, stomach wary. _Annalise in ICU. Do not contact any of the other Keating Five. Keep a low profile until further notice,_ is all the text reads. Three little sentences that have such an effect on Connor. 

 

His mind is blank.

 

It’s as if all the matter in the room gets sucked out. 

 

Connor is left with nothing, no air to breathe, no semblance of control that remains. His lungs have been punctured, and all the oxygen is seeping out. The empty room is stifling, uncontrollably terrifying, and Connor sways sideways, grasping the kitchen room chair to hang onto so he doesn’t fall to the ground. There’s panic building in his system, he’s aware of his hands shaking, and he wants to throw up. 

 

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand what’s happening. 

 

He makes his way to the couch, and his breathing is nothing but short gasps. 

 

_Stop. You’re fine, Connor. Everything’s fine. You’re okay. Get yourself together. You’re fine. You’re not a part of it. You didn’t do anything this time. You walked away. You have nothing to worry about. You dropped the gun. You didn’t do it. You’re not responsible. You walked away. You’re not responsible. Not responsible._

 

Over and over he repeats this until finally he can breathe again. 

 

Eventually, he calms down. 

 

He doesn’t know how or why, but he ends up by the window, staring past the glass and down to the world below. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, maybe hours, maybe minutes. 

 

The clock on the wall keeps ticking. At first it’s barely audible, but soon it starts drowning Connor’s ears until there’s nothing left but the sound of the clock.

 

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 

 

He feels empty. 

 

Tick. Tock.

 

No — he feels exhausted.

 

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 

 

He’s staring down at the text message, knowing that he should delete it, but being unable to do so. Instead, with a frustrated shout, he throws the phone at the wall, then watches in numb silence as it hits, crashes, and splinters into pieces. There’s a scratch on the wall from the impact, and Connor feels guilty for being the one to leave a scar on Oliver’s home. 

 

He feels guilty, and yet he still goes on a rampage, tearing the place apart as he knocks down everything on the counter. White plates, falling to the ground, cracking into a million pieces. He can’t stop himself. He knows he needs to stop. That he’s breaking Oliver’s stuff, but he- he just can’t. He doesn’t stop until all the plates are shattered on the kitchen floor and he’s fallen to the ground, hands locked around his knees, rocking back and forth. 

 

He doesn’t know how he finds the self-will to get up, but eventually he does. 

 

He can feel a tiny pang of discomfort in his feet, but he doesn’t pay it any mind.

 

Slowly, hazily, he moves across the tiles towards the windows. 

 

Slowly, hazily, he sees; down on the sidewalk with an easy smile on his face, Oliver, home from work, walking towards the apartment building. Connor can feel a jolt of joy pump in his chest and, momentarily, he forgets about the phone, about the broken plates. Forgets about the chaos he created. He walks closer towards the clear glass that, due to the setting sun signaling the start of the slumbering of the day, partly reflects his own image back at him. 

 

He doesn’t look at his own reflection.

 

Instead, he gazes down as Oliver, who, illuminated beautifully by the street lamp, stops to chat for small talk with one of their neighbors. Rubbing his hands together, and bouncing from one foot to the other to keep himself warm, Oliver is still smiling so brightly that it lights up his whole face. _A smile more illuminating than the light from the lamp,_ Connor thinks. 

 

His eyes stay glued to Oliver’s form the entire time, and as Oliver waves goodbye and starts walking into the building and out of Connor’s sight, he stands on his toes and leans in, nose almost pressing against the cold window and fogging up the glass, as he tries to catch one last glimpse of Oliver. 

 

It’s not until he hears the clicking of the keys as Oliver unlocks the door that Connor looks away from the window. 

 

There’s a smile on Connor’s face as he strides across the room and pulls Oliver into his arms, giving him a deep kiss. Oliver slides his hands across Connor’s back and deepens the kiss. 

 

It takes a while for them to part, and when they do, they’re both short of breath. 

 

“Hi,” Connor says, smiling as he leans his nose against Oliver’s. 

 

“Well, that’s one hell of a welcome,” Oliver replies, grinning. But then, when his eyes dart behind Connor’s back, the smile falls off his face, as he goes rigid in Connor’s arms. 

 

“What? What wrong?” Connor asks.

 

“Your phone.”

 

“My phone?”

 

“The plates.”

 

“The plates?”

 

“Yes, the plates. They’re broken. On the ground. Smashed.” Oliver says, looking straight into Connor’s eyes, as he takes a step back. “Why are the plates like that, Connor?”

 

Connor freezes. He doesn’t know what to say. 

 

_Annalise in the ICU. Annalise, ICU. A-Annalise…Gun….’Shoot me’ ……You in jail because of me……You almost kidnapped because of me….Me. Everything’s my fault, Ollie._

 

He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about the plates. Doesn’t want to think about anything. He just wants to wrap his boyfriends arms around himself and escape in them, in their heat, their comfort. 

 

When he doesn’t receive an answer, Oliver steps around Connor and walks towards the cell phone, picking it up. The screen is shattered. The phone case is a foot away, having fallen beneath the couch. Stretching his arm out, Oliver picks up the case. 

 

Ignoring all the shattered plates, Oliver wordlessly walks back towards Connor and holds out the phone. When Connor, frozen from… _something_ — fear, shock — doesn’t reach for it, Oliver puts it on the coffee table beside him. 

 

Oliver, with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched in on himself, goes to sit on the couch, and fixing his gaze on nothing, just looks straight ahead. 

 

Connor hasn’t moved a muscle since Oliver’s noticed the cellphone. The plates; some shattered into a thousand pieces, look like stardust on the ground — broken, jagged, stardust.

 

There’s a heaviness in the room.

 

“I accidentally dropped it. The phone.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And the plates. The plates I dropped those, too.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I was…I was grabbing myself something to eat when I accidentally tipped all the plates on the ground.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

“And - And it happened just now which is why it’s still on the ground. I was going to clean it up right before you came.”

 

“Connor!” Oliver half shouts, “Stop. Just stop. At least don’t treat me like an idiot. You honestly think I’m going to believe any of that? If you can’t tell me the truth, at least don’t feed me lies. Just - Please don’t lie to me.” his voice drops; he sounds sad. “You think I haven’t noticed how paranoid you’ve looked since yesterday night? How scared and troubled? You keep looking over your shoulder as if you expect to be hounded down by police dogs any second.”

 

Connor, still standing in that same damn spot, wants the world to swallow him whole. 

 

A silence moment. Then: “Come here,” Oliver says in a tired voice, as he scoots over to one side of the couch.

 

Connor moves before he even realizes what he is doing. 

 

As he sits down, Oliver gets up. Connor keeps his eyes on his retreating form as Oliver heads into the bathroom, and he doesn’t look away until Oliver is back on the couch, this time with a first-aid kit in his hands. 

 

He’s confused at first, doesn’t understand what Oliver is doing as he lifts Connor’s leg and places it across his lap. 

 

Then it hits him. 

 

There’s blood on the soles of his feet. The sharp, broken pieces of the plates are stuck to his skin. He hisses as the realization brings along with it pain. Oliver cringes at the sound, and rubs Connors ankle, making sure to avoid the wounds. “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m sorry. It’ll only hurt a moment.” Oliver says, probably more to reassure himself than Connor. 

 

He looks around only now realizing the spots of blood on the ground, the spots where Connor walked and stood with his injured feet. 

 

_'_ How? How could he not have noticed? He must be losing his mind quicker than he realized, _'_ Connor thought, as he watched Oliver with precise hands treat Connor’s wounds so delicately. 

 

They sit in silence as Oliver places a salve on his wounds, but then Connor hears a sob, and at first he doesn’t realize where it’s coming from, but then he notices Oliver’s shoulder’s shaking as he hunches in on himself, still tending to Connor’s injuries. 

 

“Ollie,” Connor whispers, voice broken. “Ollie, please stop crying.”

 

“Shut up.” Oliver, chokes out, the shaking of his shoulders only getting worse.

 

Connor moves his feet away from Oliver’s lap and slides across the couch to envelop his arms around him, wrapping his entire body around Oliver, like a snake around its victim. 

 

“Everything’s going to be alright, Ollie.”

 

"You - You hurt yourself, Connor. You broke the plates, and you hurt yourself and you didn't even realize." Oliver chokes out in between sobs. "I'm scared."

 

Connor goes still. "You're scared of me." His voice sounds miserable. He starts to move away, to get himself as far away from Oliver as he can so as to not make him more uncomfortable, but Oliver grabs a tighter hold of his shirt.

 

Looking up at him, eyes red and puffy with tears, and in between pained gasps, Oliver says, "No not of you. _For_ you."

 

The relief that Connor feels is shameful. Oliver _should_ be scared of him.

 

Oliver’s sobs become muffled as he, with his arms clinging to Connor’s shirt, drops his head onto Connor’s chest, and let the sobs work themselves through his body. 

 

Connor wraps himself tighter around Oliver. The entire time Connor is whispering soothing _“I love you’s”_ and _“It’s going to be okay,”_ and _“I promise I won’t do it again,”_

 

His own tears burn in the back of his eyes, at seeing the pain Oliver’s going through. 

 

It’s your fault.

You did this to him.

You’re the one who caused him so much pain, Connor thinks.

 

They fall asleep like that on the couch, the first-aid kit forgotten on the side, Oliver with his head on Connor’s lap, clinging to his thigh with his hands, and Connor with his head on Oliver’s back, enclosing him as if he is trying to shield Oliver with his body. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

An endless corridor filled with heavy, white fog seeps into Connor’s eyes, burning them.

 

Blood red doors on both sides of the narrow but never ending passageway stand in uniform line, stretching on forever until they’re nothing but little red dots in the distance.

 

A creaking noise behind him. Connor jumps at the sound, and with a shortness of breath, turns to look.

 

Nothing. No one. But the creepy moaning sounds continue to fill his ears, his mind. He can almost feel the noise with his fingertips.

 

_Connor_ , a voice, strikingly similar and yet one he can’t place, traveling from one of the closed doors, caresses his ear.

 

_Connor_

 

With shaking hands, he reaches towards the sound and as soon as his fingers meet the rough wood and before he can do anything else, it swings open with a slam.

 

The smell hits him first. Blood.

 

And then he sees it. It’s everywhere. Leaking from the corners in the ceiling; smeared across walls; pooling into puddles on the floor around his feet. His naked feet. Because he’s not wearing shoes.

 

As the blood makes contact with his bare skin, a scream hurls itself out of his mouth before he can clamp down on it, and goes flying into the empty, horrifying room.

 

With frantic steps, he’s backing out of the room and back into the dreary corridor. His back hits the door on the exact opposite side, and he goes flying, falling, into the room as that door swings open as well.

 

One deep breath, then another, and another. It’s the only thing that keeps him from passing out. Traces of the blood still cling to the soles of his feet.

 

He doesn’t move from where he lands on the ground from the fall. He’s across the corridor but still facing the first room, the one with the blood, and watches in horrified fascination as it’s door slowly creaks to a shut.

 

As soon as he turns around and sees what’s waiting for him in this room, he wishes he could be transported back to the place with the leaking blood.

 

That room is a place of sunshine compared to this - this absolute nightmare.

 

He’s surrounded by the dead bodies of all the people he’s ever known or cared or loved.

 

And then he sees Oliver, slumped up in the dark corner of the grey painted room; his eyes are open, but blank, not a trace of life left in them. It takes a moment for him to understand, for his brain to process what his eyes are seeing, and once he does Connor is running towards the door, trying to get himself out because he can’t stand it, can’t stand - can’t stand any of this.

 

And he’s at the door, trying to escape. But he can’t. The door, which had been broken down by Connor’s body a second ago, is standing as if it had never even been touched, blocking the exit.

 

Connor is screaming, throwing his body against the thing blocking his exit, but it doesn’t budge, and he’s screaming, thrashing and—

 

Someone’s slapping his cheek.

 

“Connor! Connor! Connor wake up! Wake up!”

 

At first, he doesn’t understand. He’s being shaken as a voice, a panicked, hysterical voice, floats above him.

 

“Oliver?” he manages to groan out, his voice heavy with sleep.

 

He looks around. He’s on the couch where they fell asleep, and Oliver is sitting next to him, eyes wide with lingering traces of panic. His hand, which moments ago had frantically shaken him away, is squeezing Connor’s shoulder painfully tight.

 

Before he can say anything, say that he’s okay, muscular arms wrap themselves around him, and he can feel a faint tremor in them as Oliver barely whispers, “You were screaming.”

 

“I’m sorry. It was just a nightmare. You know from stress and stuff. Being a law student isn’t all fun and games,” Connor says, trying to smile and keep his voice lighthearted.

 

“You were screaming, and I couldn’t wake you up. For over five minutes I couldn’t do anything but sit here and watch you shout and cry in pain.” Oliver’s arms, still shaking, remain tightly wrapped around Connor.

 

Connor swallows Oliver's words as if they are broken shards of glass.

 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. Because what else can he do? “If it makes you feel better, I don’t even remember what it was I was dreaming. Never have. I wake up, and it slips from my mind right away.”It’s a lie; he remembers everything. Tracing his hand lightly on Oliver’s neck, Connor can feel his frantic, erratic pulse, beating under Connor’s touch.

 

They sit in silence for a while. Connor traces lightly over Oliver’s neck, arms, face, as Oliver’s hands relax and stop trembling. Connor tries to bring his own racing heartbeat down and stop the horrifying images of his dreams from invading his mind.

 

“Now that we’re awake, we might as well go sleep in the bed,” Connor whispers, a little later when they’d both calmed down, and presses a kiss to the crown of Oliver’s head.

 

“Okay,” Oliver replies, voice muffled from being pressed into Connor’s chest.

 

*********

 

When he wakes, the sun rays sneaking into the room through the little cracks in the side of the curtains, Connor doesn’t see Oliver in bed next to him and the completely irrational thought, _what if he’s had enough and left_ , trails across his mind before he hears the shuffling of someone moving about in the kitchen.

 

Stepping outside and leaving behind the warm cocoon of the bedroom Connor’s senses wake up completely as he looks around. All the plates that he’d broken yesterday are nowhere in sight, and Connor swallows and looks down, feeling guilty and realizing that Oliver must’ve gotten up early to clean up everything.

 

“You didn’t have to, you know,” Connor says, referring to the plates, while his eyes dart to the side, not being able to look Oliver in the eyes.

 

“I have to re-apply the balm to your feet,” is Oliver’s only reply.

 

When Connor finally lifts up his eyes and meets Oliver’s gaze, he can see a restraint there, as if he wants to say, to ask, more. So Connor waits while staring at him in silence, giving Oliver the window he needs to ask about the things that must be weighing so heavily on his mind. _So Connor, tell me, why is that you have gone batshit insane in the manner of a couple of days?_ \- is what Oliver wants to ask, Connor’s sure.

 

But Oliver looks away first and doesn’t say anything, only moving to get the treatment necessary for Connor’s injury. Connor wants to sag to the floor in relief at not having to have this conversation now, but at the same time pull his hair out in frustration at the knowledge that this is going to have to continue. This game of lying and playing dumb. He almost wishes Oliver would just come out and ask. Ask, so Connor can tell him all the terrible things he’s done. Tell him that he’s killed a person. That Annalise is shot. That he's the one who almost shot her. That he feels like death is his shadow, his second skin. Tell him that he’s scared and wants to run away.

 

Darkly, as if separated from himself for a moment, Connor muses, in a clinically detached sort of way, how fast Oliver would run away screaming if he knew who -what- Connor truly was.

 

Having returned with the necessary medication, Oliver walks over to Connor and, with a gentle hand, grasps Connor’s forearm. There’s still a heaviness in his eyes, in the tightness of his mouth, as he leads Connor towards the couch.

 

“I made reservations at a fancy restaurant for tonight,” Oliver says, after he finished helping Connor, and closes the lid on the salve.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. It, just, it seemed like we needed a breather after everything that’s…” Oliver trails off.

 

Heart racing, he can’t stop the small tremor that travels through his fingers; is this it, he thinks? Is this where they talk about everything.

 

…. _'after everything that’s'_ …

 

Is this where they talk about everything; where Oliver demands answers that Connor is too weak to keep from him any longer?

 

Oliver coughs awkwardly. “Anyway, the reservation is for six.”

 

_I guess not_ , Connor thinks.

 

Connor says, “I can’t wait.”

 

*****

The dimmed lights, the soft, romantic music playing in the background, and the paintings of lovers in Paris, kissing on benches with a fountain as their background, make it clear that this is the type of restaurant where mostly couples in the honeymoon stages of their relationships frequent.

 

Oliver flips through the beautifully decorated menu filled with dishes that he’s never heard of, let alone be able to pronounce, as he tries to make small talk; chattering anxiously about whatever, as his foot bounces against the ground.

 

“So, uh, the weather is beautiful today,” Oliver says, looking around the grand dining hall of the restaurant. It’s filled to the brim with couples, all chattering among themselves, creating a steady buzzing sound all around them.

 

Connor hides a smile as he takes a drink of his wine, amused and fond at this nervous version of his boyfriend, feeling calm and happy for the first time since everything had gone to shit. “You want to talk about the weather?”

 

There’s still a heaviness deep in the chambers of his heart, and he’s aware of it at all times of the day, but sitting here, with Oliver across from him, glowing in the soft, dimmed lights, he starts to relax, to unwind; the heaviness becomes mixed with a sort of happiness, a touch of lightness for the soul.

 

“You seem…better today,” Oliver says hesitantly. This is as close as they dare skirt around everything that’s happened, around Connor's weird behavior as of late, in fear of opening up a rift they will not be able to close. As if the truth is a bomb and they’re both too scared to go near it for fear of an explosion.

 

“Yeah, I feel better today,” Connor replies, over the soft piano music playing in the background.

 

They stare at each other for a moment, trying to decipher if the other is going to broach the subject further, to take another step closer towards the bomb. None does. And the intense moment is broken by the arrival of the waiter.

 

The rest of the evening is spent pleasant conversation, flirty handholding across the table, food sharing, and the kind of tender, unnerving but exhilarating, eye holding that makes it seem as if Connor can peer into Oliver’s soul.

 

It is only when the check arrives, placed in the corner of the table and, at first, unseen by Connor and Oliver who are so engrossed in their conversation and each other, that a tall and kind looking man approached the table. At first, Oliver doesn’t notice him, but right away Connor does. Connor also doesn’t miss the intensity with which this person is looking at his boyfriend -- like a sharpshooter at his target. Instinctively, his left hand, which was lying idly on the table, fingers gently grazing Oliver’s wrist, tightly wraps itself around Oliver’s hand.

 

“Oliver,” the stranger says, eyes a gleam of happiness and a broad grin on his face, as he neared towards them. 

 

Startled at first, it takes Oliver a moment to turn towards the sound, breaking eye contact with Connor as he looks towards the intruder of their dinner party.

 

“Jason!” The chair squeaks against the linoleum flooring as Oliver shoots up out of his seat coming face to face with the man. Connor takes a minute to study him — curly hair the color of gold, and hazel eyes, a warm, inviting face. Begrudgingly, Connor admits him to be quite attractive.

 

“Hi. How are you,” Jason says, wrapping his arms around Oliver, who is standing frozen, staring at him with wide eyes as if he were some magical, never before seen, creature. “It’s so great to see you. How long has it been? Like what, two years?”

 

“Um, yeah, yeah it’s been about two years,” Oliver stammers out.

 

Connor clears his throat loudly, causing Oliver to turn his attention back to him while Jason’s arms are still wrapped around him. Getting up from his seat, Connor looks pointedly at the man who, up until this point, has not even glanced in his direction once, sticks out his hand for a handshake and says, “Hello, I’m Connor.”

 

Stepping away from Oliver who still looks like he’s had the rug pulled out from under him, Jason looks at his outstretched hand in what almost looks like amusement, much to Connor’s ire, before returning the greeting.

 

“Hello,” he says.

 

Turning back around to face Connor, Oliver looks between the two men on either side of him and while rubbing his hands together in a nervous tick and says, “Um, Jason, this is Connor, my boyfriend. Connor, this is Jason, my ex-boyfriend.”


End file.
